


Lavender

by everytimeyougo



Category: The Good Fight (TV)
Genre: AU, But come on you know I would never, F/M, Hints of pre-Diane/OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-06-29 17:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15733992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everytimeyougo/pseuds/everytimeyougo
Summary: What if the Rindell scandal never happened and Diane moved to France, as planned? Would that spell the end for her and Kurt?





	1. Prologue

_Then_

_She doesn’t know what caused it, this sudden softening of her stance. Perhaps it’s true that time heals all wounds; it’s been nearly a year after all. Or maybe she’s just tired. Tired of forcing her thoughts away from him. Tired of pretending she no longer cares what he thinks, or how he is or, how he’ll feel after she’s gone._

_Whatever the cause, it’s led her here. She lifts her hand and raps sharply on the plain wooden door._

_He’s not going to like what she’s come to say, but she owes him this much consideration, if no more._

_The door opens and suddenly he’s there, filling the doorway, backlit by the soft light coming from inside the house. His eyes widen quickly, then narrow as his jaw falls slightly open in surprise. It reminds her of another night, another impulsive visit, albeit one in which she had a much different goal in mind._

_“Diane?” he says, his tone asking the questions he will not. Belatedly, he steps back and allows her to enter._

_Wordlessly she does, brushing past him and clenching her teeth against the jolt of electricity that runs through her even at this slight, not-quite contact._

_The house beyond is unfamiliar. She’s never actually been here, inside this little cabin he moved to following their separation. She only knows of its existence from a terse email informing her of his new address, in case she needed to forward any mail. She had laughed bitterly at that - as if there had ever been reason for him to use her address. It dawns on her only just now that perhaps he simply wanted her to know where to find him._

_The rooms are small and gloomy, lacking the character that radiated from every corner his former home. The old farmhouse hadn’t been her taste, but it had been his, and she had loved it for that._

_“It’s nice,” she tosses out, not quite managing sincerity._

_“Why are you here?” he asks. The words are blunt, but his tone holds no anger, only understandable confusion._

_“I came to say goodbye.”_

* * *

_He puts a glass of whiskey in her hand and the bottle on the coffee table. She suspects his own glass had been filled and emptied at least once before he joined her in the living room._

_“So. France.” His face is granite, but his eyes bore into her, fear and grief disguised as bitterness._

_“Yep.” She downs her drink and reaches for the bottle. He beats her to it, pouring them both another generous two fingers._

_“So this is over.” He doesn’t make it a question._

_She inclines her head, lips pressed together. “It’s been over for a long time now.” Longer than even she knew, she thinks but does not say aloud. There’s been enough recrimination between them._

_“Sometimes…” He stops, shakes his head, throws back his drink._

_“What?”_

_He looks away, wedding band tapping against his glass. She sips at her drink this time and waits._

_“Sometimes I think we never even tried,” he says at last, turning back to her, jaw set. “Never tried being married.”_

_She sighs. “Kurt that doesn’t…”_

_“Doesn’t excuse what I did. I know.” He shakes his head and falls silent._

_She understands what he means. She hadn’t at first, had refused to acknowledge, even to herself, that the way they arranged their lives had contributed to what happened. They had never made their marriage a priority, neither one of them. But it doesn’t matter anymore; things between them are long past fixing. “Such a fucking waste,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. They had something precious once, and they abused and neglected it until it died. No, worse than that. It’s still half alive, battered and broken and profoundly aware that it didn’t have to be this way._

_She blinks rapidly and tears spill over her lashes._

_He notices, starts to rise, until she holds up a hand. She won’t be able to keep it together if he comes any closer and she’s cried enough over this already. “That isn’t why I came.”_

_He eases back down, folds over on his knees, head hanging low. “Why did you?”_

_Swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, she takes a few deep breaths before she speaks. “I wanted to tell you that I’m okay.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and she laughs mirthlessly as she wipes away a fresh trickle of tears. “All evidence to the contrary, I suppose.”_

_He stays silent, face devoid of emotion, waiting for her to continue. She inhales deeply once more, then sits forward in her seat, unconsciously mimicking his position._

_“What I mean is,” she says carefully, “I don’t want you to spend the rest of your life punishing yourself for the past. This isn’t how I thought my retirement would look, but I’m fine. I’m moving on. You should too.”_

_He snorts dismissively, leaning back against on the couch, steadfast in his refusal to look at her. It’s no more or less than she expected. He can’t...won’t...talk about any of this with her. All she can hope is he’ll take some of her words to heart, even if he can’t admit to it now. Part of her will always love him, and she can’t bear the idea of him hiding away in this drab little house, punishing himself indefinitely._

_Silence descends over the room, and it occurs to her she should leave now that she’s said what she came to say. Instead she pours them each another drink._

* * *

_“You did not!” she exclaims, the drop of her jaw and rounding of her eyes exaggerated by the whiskey flowing freely through her veins._

_One corner of his mouth lifts. “Oh, I did.”_

_She throws back her head, laughing at the picture he’s drawn of his testimony in his most recent case. “And no one objected?”_

_“Nope. I think the defense wanted to, but I was their witness, so…” He lifts his hands in a shrug, then reaches for his glass._

_She raises her hand to her mouth, trying to tame the smile that won’t seem to leave her face. It’s the whiskey, she tells herself, but that’s only half true. It’s also him. Them. It’s always been like this between them, when they let it be, when they weren’t busy running away from each other, or worse, putting each other on the very bottom of their to-do lists and calling that a marriage._

_Joyous. That’s what this is; that’s what she feels. Joy. She had thought the feeling was gone forever. She can’t stop looking at him. Her body tingles with remembrance. Or anticipation._

_“What?” he asks, his eyes darker than she’s ever seen them._

_Impulsively she stands, swaying slightly in place as the alcohol in her blood reminds her of its presence. She’s drunk. They both are. She should call a taxi. Instead she moves to stand in front of him._

_“Diane,” he says, and it’s both a warning and an invitation. She tips her head to the side, considering, her eyes not leaving his. There’s no question she wants him, and that’s not the alcohol talking. She’s always wanted him, from the very first day they met. And it’s not that she’s forgotten everything that’s happened between them. If anything, it’s that she’s remembered. They were once so much more than the events of the past year. It doesn’t change anything. But it’s not meaningless either._

_She closes the space between them and straddles his lap, one knee on either side of his hips, and takes his face in her hands. “I’m still leaving,” she whispers, as her eyes drift closed._

_“I know.”_

* * *

_The weight of his arm curled over her waist, the rhythm of his sleeping exhalations in her ear - she never thought she would feel this kind of peace again. Drunken love-making cures nothing; she’s not so naive as to believe that, but… But maybe this can be the beginning of something new. She drifts off, dreaming of walking with him, hand in hand, through fields of lavender._

_When she wakes an indeterminate amount of time later, her hangover is already setting in. Her head throbs and her mouth tastes like death, but surprisingly, even when she prods delicately at old wounds, she finds no regret at her actions. Easing herself out from under Kurt’s arm, she goes in search of the painkillers she knows are in her purse._

_Leaving the bedroom, she picks up her bag from the chair where she left it and starts to cross the living area to the kitchen in search of a glass of water. Halfway there, a familiar tone sounds and the dim room brightens momentarily. Kurt’s phone still sits on the coffee table next to the nearly empty bottle of whiskey._

_Feeling suddenly, inexplicably, like she’s underwater, she walks over to the couch and sinks down in the same spot he was occupying earlier, staring at the dark screen of the phone. Her stomach churns and she tells herself it’s from the booze._

_Two minutes later, just as she knew it would, the phone chimes, and the screen comes to life again. She wants to screw her eyes shut, wants to block out confirmation of the information some vagary of intuition has already provided her, but she can’t._

 

Holly Westfall: It was so nice to see you, we need to get together again soon…

 

_The rest of the message is cut off, but it doesn’t matter. She’s seen enough. The whole time she was worrying about how she could convince him to move on, it seems he already had._

* * *

_In her absence, he’s rolled over onto his back and slung one arm across his forehead. The sheet has slipped to his waist, leaving his naked chest exposed. Even now the compulsion to climb back in bed, to thread her fingers through his chest hair, to touch her tongue to his skin is almost overwhelming._

_Silently, she gathers her clothing and takes it to the tiny hall bathroom, carefully closing the door before flicking on the light. Hurriedly, she dresses, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. She already knows what she would see: a sad, tired old woman blinded by illusions of her own making. Kurt is no old-fashioned, honorable cowboy. He never was. After everything fell apart, it had taken months for the disillusionment to fade from her eyes. She doesn’t need to look now to know it’s back._

_Her steps slow involuntarily as she walks from the bathroom and past the open bedroom door, but her resolve holds, and she continues on through the living room to the front door. Opening it, she steps out into the pre-dawn mist._

_“Goodbye Kurt,” she mouths soundlessly, as she pulls the door closed behind her._


	2. Chapter 2

Now 

The lavender is in bloom, filling the air with perfume and painting the landscape a vibrant, sunkissed purple. Diane inhales deeply, savouring the breeze she creates as she rides from her house into the small town a short distance away. Her bicycle is blue with a white wicker basket attached to the handlebars to hold her tote bag. Once in town, she’ll stop at her favourite cafe for breakfast, linger over coffee and the newspaper, then make her way around the shops, purchasing colourful produce, freshly baked bread, and today, perhaps some herbs to plant in her window box at home. As as morning routines go, it’s a far cry from the chaos that was her lifeblood in Chicago, but she’s come to enjoy the peace.

Waving at the cafe’s owner, she selects a newspaper from the rack, then takes a seat near the wrought iron fence separating the seating area from the sidewalk where she can watch the town wake up and begin its day. She removes her wide-brimmed hat and sets it on the table opposite her just as Pierre brings her usual café noisette and pain au chocolat set on delicate bone china.

“Merci,” she says fondly, and the elderly man nods implacably, setting a folded linen napkin alongside her plate before leaving her to her breakfast. She unfolds the cloth and sets it on her lap, then picks up her pastry and takes an enthusiastic bite. As she does, something warm, soft, and furry winds its way through her ankles.

“Bonjour Monsieur Bruno.” She sets down the croissant and leans over to stroke the fat orange tabby cat, scratching behind his ears and under his jaw until he purrs like a rusty chainsaw. “I’m afraid I have nothing you would like today.” When she lunches at the cafe, she’s sure to share a bit of ham or chicken with the establishment’s resident feline. So, she assumes by his girth, do many of the patrons.

With no treats forthcoming, Bruno quickly loses interest in her. She straightens up in her seat and is reaching for her coffee when a sudden, odd frisson races up and down her spine. Her hand slows, then freezes halfway to her cup. She shivers despite the warm morning sun. It’s the oddest feeling, like something momentous is happening just beyond the edges of her peripheral vision.

Surreptitiously, she looks around to the other tables, noting the young couple two tables to her left, and a woman of her own generation just sitting down to her right. Catching Diane watching, she smiles uncertainly, then looks away. Several other people stroll along the sidewalk outside the fence, caught up in their own lives. None pay her any mind.

It’s only when she glances back at the stretch of sidewalk behind her that she sees him. A man with a familiar rolling gait and thick silver hair glinting in the sun just as he disappears around the corner of the building.

Heart pounding, she stands abruptly, pushing back her chair and startling Bruno. The cat hisses and runs off, but Diane is beyond noticing.

_It wasn’t. It couldn’t be._

Bending and twisting, she stretches her torso over the low wrought iron fence, trying to catch a glimpse of the owner of the silver hair, but it’s too late. Whoever he is, he’s out of sight.

She grabs her wallet, intending to toss some euros to the table so she can rush from the cafe in hot pursuit, when a hand lands on her shoulder from behind. Startled, she whirls around, half-expecting to find a silver-haired ghost standing cross-armed behind her.

“Good morning,” her neighbour Paul greets her. His cheerful expression slides from his face, replaced with one of concern as he takes in her state of near-panic. “Diane? Is something wrong?”

She stares at him, momentarily unable to process his sudden presence. After glancing quickly to the street, then forces her attention back to the man in front of her. “No, no, I’m fine. I thought I saw someone I knew, but I was mistaken.”

His smile returns. “Great! So you can join me for a cup of coffee?”

She forces the spectre of the past from her mind, and when she returns his smile, it’s genuine. “Of course.” She gestures to the chair opposite and retakes her seat, picking up her still hot coffee and taking a sip.

“So what are your plans for the day?’ he asks after ordering his coffee. A tall, sturdy looking man a few years her senior, Paul is a fellow American expat. The two of them met shortly after she moved in, becoming fast friends, bonding over their frustration and incredulity at all that was happening to their home country.

She rips the corner off her pain au chocolat and pops it into her mouth. “Oh, nothing much. I’m retired, you know,” she says airly, then laughs; she still hasn’t quite gotten the hang of retirement and her inability to sit still has become something of a running joke between them.

He snorts, then looks at her pointedly until she answers more honestly. “I have some shopping to do, then I’m going to work in the garden this afternoon. The new beds are coming along nicely. Why don’t you come for dinner tonight and check on my progress?” she adds impulsively. He’s been tutoring her a bit in gardening techniques. She hadn’t had much of an opportunity to learn, living most of her life  in downtown Chicago.

And even when she had a part-time home in the country, like with so many things, she never made the time.

She blinks, shoving away the encroaching melancholy. What is wrong with her today? Paul is speaking, and she tunes back in in time to gather that he’s accepted her invitation. He’s been hinting lately that he could be interested in more than friendship, and she’s been covering her indecision by pretending not to notice. She _is_ still married, technically speaking, though it’s been over a year since she last saw her husband. She doubts he’s been maintaining their vows. After all, he hadn’t managed to do that even when…

She shakes her head abruptly, willing the unproductive thoughts from her mind. “Great. I’ll see you then.” She nods, then quickly stands, suddenly anxious to be on her way. It’s clear she’s not going to be able to get past this unsettled feeling until she’s away from this place and engrossed in something else.

Paul watches her leave, a quizzical expression on his broad face, but she doesn’t turn back to see it.

* * *

An hour later, the basket on her bike is full to overflowing with fresh produce and baked goods, and she’s pedalling along the side of the road leading back home. Shopping had proven to be an insufficient distraction, as she’s thought of little else but the glimpse she’d caught of someone who most assuredly had not been her husband.

After all, what on earth would Kurt be doing in here in France? Her small town isn’t really a tourist destination to start with, and even if it was, he isn’t inclined toward picturesque little villages. His preferred vacation plans would include a great deal more fishing and campfires and mosquitoes than this area has to offer. No, the only reason he would have for coming here would be to see her, and well...he wouldn’t. If he had anything to say to her, he would have called. Or emailed. Unconsciously, she shakes her head. There’s nothing left to say in any case.

 _Unless he wants a divorce. Maybe Holly wants more of a commitment...or maybe he does._ The thoughts float unbidden through her mind and she pushes them out just as quickly. If that was what he wanted, he would have a lawyer contact her. He has all her information; it’s not like she’s hiding.

 _Right,_ a voice that sounds suspiciously like Will Gardner chides her. _Hiding. That doesn’t sound like the two of you at all._

“Shut up,” she mutters, pushing harder against the pedals as images of the last night they spent together flicker through her mind: his surprise at finding her at his doorstep; the hungry look in his eyes as she lowered her mouth to his; the curve of his arm across his forehead as he slept; her headlights siding across the front of his house as she drove away.

 _This is the way the world ends,_ she quotes to herself, as she brings her bicycle to a stop at her front door. _Not with a bang, but a whimper._

Leaning the bike against the step, she dismounts, gathering up her purchases and taking them into the house.

Her new home is light and airy, with white-washed wood, pale fabrics, and abstract paintings by local artists. She loves the interior, but it was the exterior that was the real attraction, with the elaborate stone patio and expansive gardens backing onto fields of lavender, patches of woodland, and rugged mountains rising stately in the distance.

Oddly, now that he’s on her mind, she realizes Kurt would fit much better in this space with its casual air and rolling green landscape than he ever had in her old apartment. He would look right at home digging in the dirt in her garden or walking along the little path by the stream.

She crosses the large open foyer to the kitchen to put away her purchases, glancing as she does into the garden. She had never thought of herself as an outdoors person before she met him. The pleasure she takes in it now is a gift he bestowed on her. Many of the good memories she has of their relationship involve being outside: fishing, shooting, hiking. Making love under the stars on a blanket in the grass behind the old farmhouse.

 _Those moments stand out in your memory because they were so rare_ , she reminds herself now before she grows too maudlin. The missed calls, the cancelled plans, the disappointments - those were the true fabric of her marriage. Those were the choices they made.

Once again she pushes thoughts of him aside, and picks up the little herb seedlings she bought at the market, taking them out through the french doors to the garden to transplant them.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Something like two thousand kids have been separated from their families and placed in what amount to child jails,” Paul continues, his expression dark. “According to Sessions, there’s biblical justification.” He looks like he wants to spit.

“Oh god, those poor children,” Diane says, leaning back in her chair, her hand rising involuntarily to cover her mouth as her heart sinks at the news.“How can anyone be so cruel, so heartless?”

He snorts and picks up his wine glass. “The President can, apparently. As can all the people who voted for him and still support him even now. You can’t possibly be surprised by this.”

Shaking her head, she shoves her cheese plate to one side, appetite gone. “I keep thinking someday I’ll lose the ability to be surprised by what that man is capable of, but it hasn’t happened yet.”

Pushing back her chair, she stands up from the table and steps over to the edge of the stone patio. Leaning on her arms against the low wall, she consciously moderates her breathing as she looks out over the garden, attempting to contain her outrage. _Someone needs to do something._ Balling her hands into fists, her knuckles scrape against the rough stone.

“I’m sorry,” Paul says, coming up to stand beside her. “I didn’t mean to upset you. That’s why we left the States, right? So we wouldn’t be constantly barraged with this garbage that we can’t do anything about?”

“I just hope those parents have good representation,” she says, turning around to face him and leaning on the wall. “I know several excellent lawyers who would take them on pro bono. If I was home…”

He reaches out and takes her gently by the elbows. “But you’re not. Diane, this isn’t your fight. You left it to the younger generation, so have faith, and let them handle it. Come on, sit back down, I have something else I want to talk to you about.”

She stares up at him, perplexed. Is that what she did? Dropped out of the fight? Left it to others? She’s never framed it quite like that in her mind. Thinking back to her emotional state at the time she decided to retire, it’s true she had been exhausted, disappointed in her fellow citizens, even angry at the apathy of so many that had let this situation happen, but surely she hadn’t been avoiding the inevitable battles still to come. Put that way, it sounds wrong, cowardly in a way she’s never thought of herself.

Allowing Paul to lead her back over to the table, she sits as he holds out her chair and listens with half an ear as he elaborates on his own decision to resettle in France, while she internally reviews her choices.

She had spent the months leading up to the election working non-stop for the Clinton campaign: fundraising, hosting events, volunteering in whatever way she could to the exclusion of nearly everything else in her life. Looking back now, it’s obvious from the sheer enormity of her commitment, that she was, at least in part, using it to cope with the dual betrayals of her husband and law partner. But she also truly believed in her candidate and she threw herself into the cause with everything she had.

She looks up as Paul refills both their wine glasses, then reclaims hers and takes a contemplative sip.

After the emotional dust from the unexpected election results had settled, she had been forced to finally look around at the state of her life, to take stock of everything she had sidestepped, minimized, or outright ignored.

Professionally, her name may have been first on the letterhead, but the firm, with its laundry list of partners she barely knew, was one to which she no longer felt any connection, emotional or ideological.

And personally, she’d been stuck at the same impasse she’d been at since that awful day in court, seeing no clear path forward for her marriage, but equally lacking the will to end it for good.

She grimaces and takes another swallow of wine. Maybe by retiring and moving, she had she been running away after all. But not from the fighting the good fight, not from resisting Trump and all he stands for. That is still her responsibility, as it’s the responsibility of every American who believes in a different vision for their country. She’s been shirking that responsibility. She straightens her spine. No more.

“So what do you think?” Paul asks, and she realizes she hasn’t heard a word he’s said since they sat back down.

She forces a self-deprecating smile to her face. “I’m sorry, Paul. I was wool-gathering. What were you saying?”

When he laughs, it’s not his usual good-natured chuckle, but something more self-conscious and tinged, perhaps, with mild irritation. “I was trying to change the subject to something more pleasant than politics,” he says, shifting in his seat.

“Oh? And did you have something specific in mind?” She folds her hands on the table and leans slightly forward, giving him her full attention.

“Yes, actually.” His fingers curl around the stem of his wine glass, spinning it in slow circles. He clears his throat. “I had a thought today. I haven’t been to Paris since I moved over here, and I was wondering if you had any interest in accompanying me? It’s changed a lot from the first time I was there - the crowds, security everywhere… I suppose it’s necessary in this day and age, but it’s just so… Well anyway, Paris is always Paris, n'est-ce pas? We can walk along Seine, drink champagne, dance under the moon. Watch the Eiffel tower sparkle. What do you say?”

What _can_ she say? His nervous babbling is charming, and Paris sounds lovely, and it’s not like she hasn’t seen something like this coming, some kind of romantic overture. She likes Paul; he’s intelligent and attractive and he shares many of her core values. So why is her stomach suddenly queasy?

Nerves, she decides. It’s just nerves, and the strangeness of the day, with too much time spent lingering on the past and fantasizing about things that are never going to happen, like Kurt suddenly appearing out of the blue and taking her in his arms. Things she knows wouldn’t be so simple in reality as they are in her imagination.

She opens her mouth to speak, still not knowing exactly how she’s going to respond, when the doorbell chimes from within the house.

She looks quickly towards the french doors leading into the kitchen and then back to Paul. “Sorry,” she says, grimacing apologetically and holding up one finger. “Hold that thought.”

Grateful for the unexpected reprieve, even if it’s only for long enough to turn down someone peddling religion door-to-door, she slips into the house, hurrying through the kitchen to the foyer.

As she pulls the door open, she glances distractedly back in the direction of the garden where Paul waits, then focuses on the person standing on the other side of the door.

Her jaw drops.

“Kurt?” she gasps, stepping back as her hand flies up to cover her mouth.

Because there on her doorstep stands her husband, the same silver hair she thought she saw that morning now glinting in the late day sun. Dressed in his usual jeans, plaid and boots, he looks like he’s strolled straight out of her memories and onto her front walk.

Nodding awkwardly, he lifts a bouquet of wildflowers and lavender he has been holding down by his side. “Hey.”

Speechless, she can only stare, eyes growing increasingly wider as her mind stutters in search of words, any words, that would be appropriate to the situation.

“Can I come in?” he asks after a moment.

Wordlessly, she walks backwards into the room. He follows, their steps synchronized like some sad parody of a waltz.

Once inside, he extends the bouquet of flowers. “I ah… I got these at some kind of outdoor flower market. It’s a nice town. Pretty.”

She accepts the flowers automatically, then holds them close to her chest as her mouth continues to open and close helplessly.

“Diane, are you going to say anything?” She’s aware, on some level, that he’s making a monumental effort to keep the impatience out of his tone, and still isn’t quite managing it. He’s nervous. That knowledge more than anything helps her find her voice.

“What are you doing here, Kurt?” Her voice is high-pitched and embarrassingly breathy, and she thinks longingly of the bottle of wine outside.

“Came to see you,” he says, his eyes not leaving hers. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” she repeats faintly.

His eyes have dropped away from her face, catching at torso level. It’s a minute before she realizes he’s stuck on her left hand, currently clutching the bouquet of flowers to her chest, where she still wears the thick gold band he put there five years ago. Fighting the urge to hide her hand behind her back, she glances to his own hand and the ring that looks like a part of him.

“I ah…” he begins to speak, his hands rising helplessly, then sliding into the pockets of his jeans.

“Diane?” Paul enters the room through the archway behind her, wine glass still in his hand. “Is everything is okay?” He comes to a stop at her side, eyebrows lifted as he looks from her to Kurt.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she says, glancing to him and then back to Kurt. Whether it’s Paul’s presence specifically, or just the interruption itself, whatever spell she was under shatters. Straightening her spine, she clamps down on her emotions.  “This is my husband.” She doesn’t complete the other side of the introduction. Kurt lost any right to know who she spends time with a long time ago. She would do well to remember why that was.

Paul, jaw slightly agape, makes no move to introduce himself either. “Oh. Ah. Perhaps I should be going then.”

“Don’t bother,” Kurt says gruffly, his eyes not leaving hers. “I’m leaving.” He turns to Diane. “I… Sorry.” He walks out the front door, closing it behind him, leaving her staring at the spot where he once stood.

“I’m sorry,” Paul says after a moment passes. “I noticed your ring, but I suppose I assumed you were widowed.”

She twists her ring back and forth with her index finger and thumb. “Sometimes it feels like I was.”


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, Diane forgoes her usual morning trip into town, choosing instead to breakfast in her own back garden. Never having quite mastered the fancy espresso machine in the kitchen, she settles for loose leaf orange spice tea and a pain au raisin purchased at the boulangerie the day before.

_Lazy mornings at the farm. Kurt making their coffee in an old-fashioned percolator while she slices bread for toast..._

She blinks, shoving the image aside. Somewhere over the course of a long sleepless night, the confusion of the previous evening evaporated, leaving hot fury in its place. What right did he have to show up here, uninvited and unannounced? Did he think she was just going to fall into his arms, everything forgiven because he was finally making an effort? If that was even what he wanted - he had never actually managed to say.

_Paul’s presence threw him, that’s all; he was getting to it. You know these things are difficult for him._

She scoffs aloud at her own thoughts. _These things_. Things like communication, expressing emotion, not sleeping with other women? They seem like the very basics of marriage to her. She drains the last of her tea and sets her cup in the saucer.  It doesn’t matter anyway. Whatever he’s here for is too little, far too late.

Looking down, she finds her right hand has crossed to her left, her thumb and forefinger on either side of her wedding band, unconsciously twisting it around her finger. Rolling her eyes, she pulls her hands apart and places them flat on the table, eyeing the thick gold band impassively. Perhaps in not pursuing a divorce, she has left him with false hope, given him reason to think the door might not be closed, that the distance between them, emotional and geographical, might only be temporary.

She snorts. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been still seeing his mistress a year into their separation, and it might have been.

Shoving her chair back from the table, she stands. It’s long past time they settles this permanently. 

* * *

There’s only one place in town Kurt McVeigh would be staying.

Approaching the desk, she asks for him by name. They really shouldn’t tell her anything, but if all her years as an attorney have taught her anything, it’s how to speak quickly and with confidence so that people will do as she asks without giving it much thought.

A moment later, she boards the elevator with his room number repeating through her mind.

The hallway is drab and dated, the high-traffic carpeting worn. How many times in the early days of _them_ had she walked down similarly uninspired corridors, watching the room numbers rise along with her excitement until finally she reached his room. Looking back, it’s tempting to see things back then as easy, uncomplicated, and to blame overblown expectations for all the pain and disillusionment that followed. But in her heart, she knows nothing was never truly simple between them. There were always undercurrents, uncertainty, and things they didn’t say out loud. The problem was none of those issues went away because they said some words and put rings on each other’s fingers.

He doesn’t look surprised when he opens the door to find her standing there, only resigned.

“Hey,” he greets her gruffly, and steps back so she can enter. Shirtless, his hair is damp and curling from the shower and he holds a toothbrush in one hand. “One second.” He disappears into the bathroom as she walks past, studiously not looking at his naked torso.

The hotel room is plain and functional, not one of the beautifully appointed, but far more expensive rooms she knows the town has to offer. It’s how she knew he would be here. Kurt doesn’t care much about money, but he cares even less about luxury. His suitcase lies open on the bed, jeans and shirts neatly packed, his shaving kit sitting on top.

She looks up as he comes out the bathroom, now fully-clothed and with his hair brushed back from his forehead. He tucks his toothbrush and miniature tube of toothpaste into the shaving kit.

“You’re leaving,” she says.

“Yes.”

Turning away, she walks over to the window beyond the bed. The drapes are closed, blocking out the sunshine and the view of the quaint town beyond, including the courtyard of her favourite cafe just a short distance away. She pushes them aside, and squints into the mid-morning light.

“I like my life here,” she says, without turning around. “I have friends, hobbies. A home.”

“Friends. Like that guy,” he says bitterly.

The insinuation is like a punch in the stomach. She closes her eyes, breathing through the hurt before schooling her features and turning around to face him.

“Kurt, why are you here? Did she dump you?” she asks, ignoring his statement. She intends the words to be sharp, but fatigue and sorrow seep into her voice, leaving it rough and raw. Tears prick at the back of her eyes and down by her side, her fingernails bite into her palms.

He looks like she slapped him. “What? Who?”

She rolls her eyes. “Holly. Did she dump you? Is that what inspired this sudden desire to see me?”

He shakes his head, eyes narrowed as he tries to make sense of her words. “What the hell are you talking about? Diane, I’ve seen her exactly twice since that day in court, both times to consult on cases she took over from me when she bought the business. We’re not friends anymore, or anything else.”

She stares at him, open-mouthed, feeling like all the air has been sucked from her lungs. But the text she saw the night before she left Chicago...she’s assumed all this time that he had still been seeing her throughout their separation, or at best, had started seeing her again when it became clear she wasn’t open to working things out. But what if that wasn’t the case? What if he’s telling the truth?

_What if..._

She inhales deeply, expanding her lungs to their limit, then slowly lets the breath go. It doesn’t matter. Whether he’s seen her or not, whether she jumped to the wrong conclusion the last time they were together or not, it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.

He sighs and looks away. “Look, I’ll leave if that’s what you want. I just thought…”

“What I want?” she interrupts. “What about you? What do you want? Why are you _here_ , Kurt?”

He starts to speak, then stops and shakes his head, looking past her. “I don’t know.”

She sighs heavily. “Yes you do.” She is quickly running out of energy to give this. If he can’t even tell her why he’s here, how could they ever make…

_...make another go of it._

Struggling to hold on to her anger, she pushes the treacherous thought from her mind with near physical effort. Why did she come here? Nothing has changed. He’s the one who hurt her, and he’s standing there waiting for her to tell him how to fix it. She can’t; she can’t do this for him. She doesn’t even want to. “I shouldn’t have come here,” she tells him.

She crosses the room, accidentally brushing against him in the narrow space between the bed and the chest of drawers. Her stomach flips at the moment of contact, but she tamps it down and presses on until he grasps her elbow.

“Diane. Stop. Wait a minute.”

She should ignore him, just pull her arm free and walk out the door, go home and call David Lee about starting divorce proceedings. End this sham of a marriage so they can both move on with their lives.

Instead she looks up at him, and all her defenses melt away. For the first time since he appeared on her doorstep the previous evening, she allows herself to actually see him. He looks tired, careworn and sad, but in his eyes, she finds the same intensity that’s always been there when he looks at her. She can’t turn away, doesn’t want to. No one has ever stirred her like this man. No one has ever made her feel like both a giddy schoolgirl and the sexiest woman alive, all at the same time. “Kurt, I…” She trails off, the words lost somewhere between her brain and her lips. The lips he’s staring at right now.

“Diane...” His voice is low and rough. His grip on her elbow tightens.

She sways closer. “Kurt,” she whispers. “Please. Why are you here?”

Several beats pass before he releases her elbow and takes a step back. Her hand falls away from his chest, though she can’t remember having put it there.

He exhales noisily. “It’s stupid.”

“Maybe let me decide that,” she suggests quietly. At some point her anger has burned itself out, leaving something unnameable in its place. Something like sadness and love and curiosity all blended together until they feel almost like hope.

“Some psycho in Chicago is killing lawyers,” he says, not looking at her. “I knew one of them. Hired me for a trial a few years ago. Just a normal guy, trying to make a living, and someone killed him for it. Diane, all I could think was what if it had been you.”

She had heard about that, had known a couple of the victims in passing. Here, an ocean and half a continent away, it had been easy for her to set her horror aside. Too easy, perhaps, as seems to have been the case with so many things. Shivering despite the heat coming from his body, still only a foot away, she wraps her arms around herself.

“I came here because…” He stops, clears his throat and tries again. “If something ever happened to you and you didn’t know…didn’t know I still love you, will always love you... I needed to be sure you know. That’s it. That’s why I’m here.”

Her mouth falls open at his plainspoken words. He looks so defiant with his eyes narrowed and jaw set, as if daring her to object, she almost laughs. Except it’s not funny is it? He’d flown clear across the Atlantic to see her and would have left without telling her anything if she hadn’t forced it from him.

When she says as much, his jaw tenses and he shoves his hands in his pockets, not meeting her eyes. “I’m not much of a talker.”

She does laugh this time. “I know. But if there’s any chance here, I need you to be.” She doesn’t realize what she’s said until his head snaps up.

“Is there a chance?”

She should say no. She should say no, and she should leave this room with its bland decor and thickening air and go home to her beautiful new life. That’s what she should do.

“I don’t know,” she shocks herself by saying instead.


	5. Chapter 5

Slouched in the corner of her pale yellow sofa, Diane stares fixedly at the vase of purple and white flowers across the room, without really seeing it. A cup of tea cools, untouched, on the table beside her as her mind whirls and stutters over her visit to Kurt’s hotel room.

Unable to bear the look of hope on his face, but equally unable to pull back the words that put it there, she left immediately following her unexpected confession. Despite her abrupt exit, she has no doubt this isn’t over. He’s not going to leave now, not when she’s given him a reason, as tenuous as it may be, to stay. Thank god he knows her well enough to give her some space to process her feelings, whatever they may be.

It seems stupidly obvious now that she’s never properly dealt with the loss of her marriage. Although, if she’ll being honest, she already knew that. Of course she did; the distance just made it easier to pretend it didn’t matter. But it did. Does. Matter. And whatever happens next, it’s still a loss. She’ll never get back what she thought she had, because it had never really existed. Their entire marriage had been based on the lies they told themselves, and each other, about balancing career and marriage to cover up the fact the neither of them had any fucking clue how to be married and were too stubborn or scared to admit it.

If only they had just talked to each other, things could have been so different.

She blinks and the flowers across the room slide back into focus. What she has to decide now is whether she wants to take a chance on starting something new. He still loves her, but as romantic a gesture as coming all the way here to tell her had been, it’s not enough of a foundation to base a marriage on. They’ve tried before, and failed rather spectacularly.

Exhaling heavily, she sits up, then pushes off the sofa to stand. Crossing the room, she stops in front of the table with the flowers and reaches out, touching one of the tiny lavender flowers. Just for the briefest of moments, a small, hesitant smile curves her lips. Then she lets her hand fall away and she continues on her way through the house and out the french doors to the patio.

Several hours later, she has succeeded in distracting herself from her romantic dilemmas by making herself very, very angry.

Open on her tablet is a video of crying children who have been wretched away from their parents. It’s only the last of several news stories she’s watched or read, and she is as furious as she’s ever been in her life. Tapping her fingers against the table in agitation, finally she stands and stalks into the house in search of a legal pad.

When Paul walks through her garden gate a short time later, she is completely engrossed, flipping through several apps on her tablet and taking notes on the pad in front of her with the gold plated pen Will gave her on the first anniversary of their partnership.

“Bonjour,” he greets her, closing the gate behind himself and approaching the stone patio.

Looking up from her notes, she pulls off her glasses and drops them to the table, blinking in the bright sunlight. “Paul, good morning.”

He laughs, his hands coming to rest on the back of the chair opposite her. “Diane, it’s three in the afternoon.”

Startled, she looks at her watch to find he’s correct. “I guess time got away from me,” she admits gesturing at her improvised office.

“What are you up to?” he asks curiously.

Quickly she explains the broad strokes of her research: possible grounds for injunctions, constitutional issues, potential strategies for future suits, other factors still to explore. “I know several attorneys who might volunteer some time,” she continues. “And I’m making a list of firms who might…”

“Diane,” he interrupts gently, “You don’t have to do all that. This isn’t your problem.”

She gapes at him uncomprehendingly. Not her problem? “But...my old firm handled many immigration cases. I have connections that can help, I… Paul, I can help. This is what I do; this is why I became a lawyer.”

He laughs. “But you’re _not_ a lawyer anymore. You’re a retiree. And don’t you think the Democrats have lawyers lining up to help these people?”

She doesn’t, honestly. Or rather, yes, she knows there will be plenty of people wanting to help _now_ , while the story is in the news and there’s publicity to be had. But what happens in a week, a month, a year from now when the news cycle has moved on to the next insane thing the president does? Who will help these people then? Oh, there will be some dedicated souls who keep at it, but in her experience, there are never, ever, enough.

“Look, Diane, I get it, okay.” He walks around behind her, and rests his hands on her shoulders.

Involuntarily, she stiffens under his touch. He notices, immediately lifting his hands, and when he moves to sit on the other side of the table, his usually genial smile appears forced. “It’s hard to see what’s happening to the country we once loved.”

She nods because it is, of course it is, but that’s not where she’s at today. Will Gardner would say she’s all riled up, and despite her horror at the situation, she feels more like herself than she has in a long time.  “Do you ever think you made a mistake in leaving the States?” she asks Paul, thoughtfully. “That maybe if you’d stayed you could have made a difference.”

He laughs. “I’m too old, Diane. This is the young man’s fight. Or woman’s.” He sobers, looking away for a moment, then flicks his hand dismissively. “People today, they aren’t interested in our brand of compromise. And honestly, I’m not sure some things aren’t beyond fixing. At least not until the current climate runs its course in a generation’s time.”

“A generation!” she gasps. “You don’t think we’re going to continue down this path for that long?” She’s horrified at the thought of how much progress could be reversed in the space a couple of decades.

“Maybe not. I hope not. But that’s how history tends to play out, and with the coming changes to the Supreme Court...” He lifts his shoulders and holds up his palms in resignation. “But that’s not why I came over. Can we talk about something else, please?”

She glances at her notes and then back at Paul. Maybe he’s right. Maybe nothing she’s doing can change the big picture. But does that mean she shouldn’t try? She can’t just let this go. Not if she can help even one family. But it’s obvious now that this isn’t something he’s going to understand about her.  “Sure,” she says, tapping the button to put her tablet to sleep. “Did you have something in particular in mind.”

He clears his throat, his eyes darting away her face. “Yes, actually. I was wondering if you had thought any more about what we talked about last night?”

“Erm...last night?” She presses her lips together. What _had_ they been talking about before Kurt’s unexpected arrival?

“Paris,” he reminds her with a gentle smile. “I asked you last night if you would be interested in seeing Paris with me.”

Oh. She remembers now. The doorbell had saved her from answering, but even then her answer most likely would have been no. Now, it definitely has to be. Paul is a nice man, but as long things are unsettled with Kurt, which they rather suddenly seem to be, she can’t encourage another relationship.

Her answer must show on her face, because his expectant expression falls away. “I was hoping,” he says, leaning back, “That since you never mentioned your husband before last night, your marriage might be on paper only.”

Her lips quirk involuntarily. “Before last night I would have said it was.”

“But not now.”

She sighs. “Now I don’t know. But after seeing him, it’s clear we still have things to figure out. I’m sorry, Paul. I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

He smiles ruefully. “You didn’t. I led myself on. But, if things don’t work out with…” he trails off, holding out a hand questioningly.

“Kurt,” she supplies.

“Right. Kurt. I would be honoured if you gave an old man a second look.”

She smiles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He nods once and stands to leave. She doesn’t object. Any suggestion he stay is sure to be awkward under the circumstances, and all she really wants to do is get back to her research.

She’s a bit disappointed in him, honestly, she decides as she watches him leave by the garden gate. Not at his reaction to her marriage or her rejection of his attempt at romance, but at his disinterest in her afternoon’s work. And not just disinterest, but outright disapproval.

 _Standing up for your values_.

The words ring through her mind as if it were only yesterday she heard them spoken in a small, dark-panelled office by a man with a sexy crooked smile, who would change everything she thought she knew about her life. Kurt had instinctively understood what made her tick after knowing her for less than a day. Paul clearly didn’t, even after a year of almost daily contact.

She thumbs her tablet back to life and finds the spot where she left off, ready to get back in the fight.

She can’t help but wonder as she does so: what else in her old life should she be fighting for?


	6. Chapter 6

Bruno winds his way through familiar-scented ankles, hoping for another bite of chicken from the salad that sits nearly untouched at the woman’s elbow while she talks animatedly on her phone. When he continues to be ignored, the large orange cat assumes his most dignified posture, tail held high in the air, and stalks off in search of a more receptive mark.

“That’s wonderful! Thank you, Adrian. Yes, I’ll be in touch. Bye.” Diane ends the call and sets her phone down on top of her legal pad. She had known Adrian Boseman only slightly in her previous life, but had always thought highly of him, so she wasn’t surprised to learn his Chicago firm has stepped up in a big way to help migrant families. He was confused when she first contacted him out of the blue to share her research, but now, after having spoken at length several times over the course of the last several days, she feels as though they’re building a rapport.

Picking up a chunk of chicken from her salad, she looks around for the cat, but he’s nowhere to be found. Shrugging, she pops the morsel into her own mouth and returns to her work. Adrian had promised to follow up on several of her suggestions, and she needs to confirm with him by email.

As she pulls her tablet closer and brings it out of sleep mode, a shadow falls across the screen.

“I guess some things never change.”

Whirling around, she finds Kurt standing behind her.

“Retired, huh?” he continues, his face impassive as always, but his eyes gleaming, both with humour and a touch of something else she’s not ready to acknowledge.

She smirks to hide the sudden flurry of butterflies in her stomach. “You’re one to talk, Mr. McVeigh. I’m not so out of the loop I haven’t heard you’re still testifying.” Her goddaughter Maia had worked with him once, according to her father Henry, and Viola Walsh had taken great pleasure in recounting how good he looked at a trial she was involved with in California.

He shrugs, sliding his hands into pockets of his jeans and rocking back a bit on his heels. “Yeah, well. Retirement wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.”

Their eyes catch and hold for a few charged seconds. They both know why that was. She clears her throat and looks away. “I was starting to wonder if you had gone home.”

He shakes his head. “Thought I should give you some space.” He indicates the chair opposite her, then pauses, waiting for permission to sit. She shoves it out a couple of inches with her foot and inclines her head.

Despite everything, it really is good to see him.

“So what are you working on?” he asks as he sits.

She grimaces. “I assume you’ve heard about the immigration debacle going on in the States right now, the children being separated from their families?”

“Of course.” His dark expression tells her he has much more to say on that subject, but he waits for her to continue.

Bracing for another lecture on how this isn’t her problem to solve, she launches into the same explanation she had given Paul a couple of days earlier, but this time adding a few details she knows Kurt will understand due to his own involvement with the court system, and his familiarity with her career.

He nods along with her as she speaks, and she feels a rush of affection for him. He really does understand her. There won’t be any lecture.

“We need stronger border security, but this isn’t the way to do it,” he says when she finishes. “I’ve ah...I’ve been working in my own circles trying to rally candidates who will uphold true conservative values without losing sight of human compassion. We’re not all like those fuckers in Washington, you know.

Her lips quirk involuntarily at his word choice. Kurt doesn’t swear often, but when he does, he makes it count. And not that she really thought he would be supportive of Trump’s policies, but it’s nice to have confirmation.

“I’m glad to see all this,” he continues. “I didn’t like thinking you weren’t in the thick of the resistance because of me. It’s always been such a big part of who you are.”

Oh. Oh no. He can reasonably take the blame for many of the things that went wrong in their relationship, but not for that. “Kurt, no,” she says, reaching across the table and lightly grasping his forearm. “I didn’t leave because of you, not really. I was just tired. Of everything - our situation, yes, but also the firm had grown out of control, and the political climate was, well…” She pauses, thinking back to the near constant anxiety she carried around with her in those days. “I felt like if I didn’t get away from all that I might go crazy. This…” She gestures to the town around them. “...was just what I needed at the time.” She trails off, realizing only as she hears her own words, that she has spoken in the past tense.

It doesn’t escape his notice either. “And now?”

“That’s something I’m just beginning to think about,” she says quietly.

He presses his lips together, bobbing his head in understanding. Wordlessly, he begins to stand.

“Wait, Kurt.”

He stops halfway to standing and looks at her with eyebrow raised.

“How long are you here?,” she asks quickly translating her instinctual _don’t go_ to something less pathetic.

"As long as it takes,” he says firmly, straightening up and squaring his shoulders, as if bracing for a blow.

She smiles. “Well, would you like to see some of the area? You know, since you’re here anyway.”

A grin spreads slowly across his face, his eyes finding hers. “Yeah, I’d like that. A lot.”

“Well,” she says, pushing back her chair. “Good. Let’s go then.”

* * *

She walks them through the small town, pointing out different places of interest, establishments she frequents, telling him stories about her earliest days here when everything was still so foreign and new.

“Weren’t you ever homesick?” he asks, and she knows what he’s really asking is if she missed him.

“Sometimes,” she admits without elaborating.

This hadn’t been their plan for retirement together - they hadn’t really had one outside of vague and illusory notions of finally having time for one another - but now she wonders whether he would have agreed to move here with her. Watching him closely as he sees the town through her eyes, she thinks if she could have gotten him here, he might have actually been happy.

They circle back around to the cafe, and from there to the route she follows most days, leading him out of the populated area along the dusty back road that leads to her house.

Walking quietly side by side, they pass by old farmhouses and barns surrounded by fields of green, purple, and gold. The warmth of the sun on her back, the calming floral scent floating on the light afternoon breeze, and his solid presence beside her all combine to bestow upon her a sense of peace she hadn’t realized she was lacking.

After a couple of kilometers, she veers off the side of the road, following a narrow footpath into a copse of trees. Glancing back over her shoulder she finds him watching her bemusedly. ‘Well, come on,” she says, holding out her hand.

He catches up in three long strides and entwines his fingers with hers. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

She leads him along the short pathway that bisects the neighbouring property and her own. It follows alongside a narrow stream she suspects may have been man-made at some point, perhaps for irrigation purposes, leading as it does from a larger river on the other side of the road. It’s pretty all the same, with tangled wildflowers growing between the rocks lining its banks and jewel-toned dragonflies flitting through the lacy shadows cast by the trees overhead.

Beside her, Kurt is quietly in his element, taking in the environment around them, and she beams, pleased she can share this with him. Her hand is warm in his, his thumb lightly stroking hers as they walk. It should be uncomfortable, maybe, after so long, but somehow it’s not.

After half a kilometer or so, they veer away from the stream and come upon her garden gate. “Here we are,” she says, unlatching the gate and pushing it open. “Home sweet home.”

“Nice,” he says, following her in. “Not the kind of place I would have pictured you in.”

“This country boy I used to know may have rubbed off on me a bit,” she teases, laughing as she leads him through the gardens and up to the stone patio.

She didn’t mean it as anything but a casual turn of phrase, a mild bit of flirtation, but her use of the past tense seems to strike him like a physical blow.

“Used to.” Dropping her hand, he turns away.

She sighs. “Kurt, god, I didn’t mean.... Come here. Sit.” She pulls out one chair at the table, then takes the other one for herself.

Wordlessly sliding the chair away from the table, he sits, folding over with his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on the flagstone beneath his feet.

“It was a lovely gesture you made, coming here like this,” she says gently. “I appreciate how hard that must have been for you, and it’s been wonderful seeing you, but I don’t want to give you false hope.”

He lifts his head and their eyes catch. “Is it false?” His voice is low and gravelly and despite herself her insides flutter.

“I don’t know,” she answers truthfully. “That’s just it. This is so sudden. I can’t give you an instant answer, and now you’re here looking at me like a lost puppy, and I just...I don’t know what to do with this.” She stops, frustrated by her own waffling, and crosses her arms across her chest. “Kurt, I was so hurt. I don’t… I don’t know if I can ever get past that.”

He draws in a long breath. “It won’t happen again. Give me a chance to prove it to you. I love you.”

She nods. She believes him, she does, but it’s hard to ignore the little voice that reminds her she believed him before, when he promised to love only her, forsaking all others. That’s perhaps the worst part of all of this - the way it’s caused her to question everything she thought she knew about him.

“You don’t know if you can get past it,” he continues. “I understand that. But do you want to?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? And there’s only one honest answer; she knew it the moment she found him standing on her doorstep. She loves him, still. Wants him, still. She wants to try. “Yes,” she says. “I want to get past it.”

Relief and joy transforming his face, he stands, closing the distance between them and offering his hand.

She looks up at him, head falling to the side as she’s reminded of another day, another outstretched hand, an opportunity to choose him she hadn’t taken. There have been far too many of those.

Reaching out, she takes his hand and allows him to pull her to her feet, and when he kisses her, it’s like falling backwards through time. One of his arms slides up her back as the other wraps around her waist, holding her tightly against him, just in time to catch her as her knees give way. It’s a well choreographed dance they’ve performed a thousand times, each time more breathtaking than the last.

Her fingers slide through his hair as their lips move together, and just for a minute, she allows herself to forget all the work and heartache that is surely still to come. Just for a minute, she’s a woman in love with her husband, and there’s nowhere else on earth she would rather be.

But only for a minute. Eventually, as it always does, reality intrudes.

“How is this even going to work?” she asks when they separate, taking a step backwards to regain her senses. “We already failed miserably at long-distance, and that was when it was only part-time. How are we ever going to manage to work things out while living on different continents? Kurt, your whole life is in Illinois.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he laughs. “Diane, my _life_ is here. I’m not going anywhere.”


	7. Chapter 7

Diane’s phone rings from deep within her tote bag as she fits her key into the lock of her front door. Juggling several bags of groceries, she turns the knob carefully, ignoring the buzzing as she pushes the door open with her foot and walks through the foyer to the kitchen. Nothing is so urgent these days that it can’t wait until she’s unencumbered.

After putting away her purchases, she sets the kettle on to boil for tea, and only then does she retrieve her phone from her bag. The call she missed was from Adrian Boseman and it seems he’s left a message. Pursing her lips, she lifts the phone to her ear and plays it back.

_Hey, Diane. It’s Adrian. Listen, I’ve been thinking, and I have something I want to run by you. You’ll probably just tell me to go fuck myself, and I wouldn’t blame you, but… Well anyway, give me a call and hear me out okay?_

That’s odd. Frowning, she taps the screen to return the call, then shrugs and leaves a message of her own when it goes straight to voicemail.

That dealt with, she sets the phone down on the counter, and opens the french doors, stepping out on the patio. “I’m making tea,” she calls out. “Do you want some?”

Kurt looks up from where he’s been pulling up sod for her new vegetable garden and grimaces.  “Not tea. Something cold?”

She gives him a thumbs up, and goes back inside, preparing her tea, and pouring him a large glass of ice water. Placing both on a tray, she adds a few madeleines purchased that morning at her favourite bakery. Tossing her phone on the tray in case Adrian calls her back, she takes the whole thing back outside and sets it on the table.

“Kurt,” she calls out, holding up the glass of water.

One-handed, he jabs the shovel into the ground, then ambles across the grass to join her on the patio. Groaning, he falls into the chair opposite her and picks up the glass of water, draining half of it in one go. After setting it down, he straightens up and pulls off his sweat-soaked t-shirt, using it to use to wipe his brow.

Diane watches, enthralled as she always has been by the way his muscles move beneath his skin. His chest hair is a little greyer than she remembers, but he’s still trim and fit for a man his age, only a little soft around the middle. Absentmindedly, she licks her lips, watching a droplet of sweat make its way down the side of his neck.

“Diane?” The amusement in his voice tells her it’s not the first time he’s said her name.

“Hmm?” She looks up in time to catch his self-satisfied smirk. Damn it. Caught.

“I asked if the bed is big enough.”

Her jaw drops. “I beg your pardon?”

Eyes twinkling, he points to his morning’s work. “The garden. Is is big enough?”

“Oh! Um, yes,” she says, craning her neck to see over the stone wall around the patio. “I think so. What do you think?”

He shrugs. “Should be good to start. There’s enough room for your tomatoes and beans and whatever. We can always expand it after the first growing season if you want more room.”

She notes his casual assumption that he’ll be around next year, but lets it slide. She’s been very clear nothing is settled between them, and she knows he understands. A little optimism can’t hurt. “All right then. I guess the bed is big enough.” She deliberately copies his phrasing, lowering her voice and letting her eyes drop back to his bare chest. He’s not the only one that can tease.

“Maybe we should take a closer look,” he suggests. “Just to be sure.” His face is expressionless, his voice deadpan. Someone who didn’t know him as well might think he was still talking about gardening, but she knows better.

“A closer look. At the bed.”

“Yes.”

Tapping her index finger against her lips, she tilts her head as she looks him over, pretending to consider. Pretending, because they both know the final answer is in no doubt at all.

Rising and taking a couple of steps forward, she stops when she’s standing between his legs, lifting her hands to rest on his shoulders. His skin is hot from the sun and the physical labour, but he shivers under her touch. Taking hold of her hips, he tries to pull her down onto her lap, but she resists, for now, sliding her hands over his bare shoulders, around his neck, and up to cradle his face. Savouring the feel of his beard against her fingertips, she bends down, kissing him softly on the lips.

Pulling back only a fraction of an inch she reassures him, “I think it’s big enough for anything you might have in mind, but I’d be happy to put it to the test.”

He stands suddenly, his arms sliding from her hips to her ass, holding her tightly to him, preventing her from backing away, not that she has any desire to do so. Being in his arms again is exciting - somehow both familiar and exhilaratingly new at the same time, and it’s all making her a little lightheaded. She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls his head down, crashing their lips together.

Her phone buzzes and clatters against the table just as they kiss, and it’s a moment before she remembers she’s actually waiting for a call. Sagging against him, she gasps, “Sorry, I’m sorry, I have to take that. It might be a lawyer in Chicago I’ve been talking to about the migrant children.”

“Go ahead; I’m not going anywhere,” he says, squeezing her ass and giving her one last quick kiss, before releasing her.

She sits down and picks up her phone, glancing at the display before she answers. “Adrian, hello.” Kurt drinks the remainder of his water, then grabs a cookie from the tray and walks over to the edge of the patio.

She listens to Adrian with half an ear as he talks about the challenges of running a law firm, and makes noises of commiseration where appropriate, as she watches Kurt finish the delicate madeleine in two bites, then walk back out to the garden to retrieve his shovel. She’s just settled back in her seat to enjoy the view when the garden gate opens, admitting Paul carrying a tray full of plants. She winces as he stops short at the sight of Kurt.

In her ear Adrian is still talking, but she’s lost track of what he’s saying, watching in consternation as the scene in front of her unfolds.

Kurt stabs the shovel back into the ground and approaches Paul with his hand extended. Paul awkwardly balances the tray of plants on one hand like a waiter and shakes.

Grimacing, she tunes back into her call, thinking she should probably just tell Adrian she’ll call him back.

“So if that’s something you might be interested in, maybe we could arrange a trip over here. We could talk, you could meet everyone, get a taste for our culture,” he’s saying, an enthusiasm in his voice she doesn’t understand.

She shakes her head, eyes still on the men in her garden. “I’m sorry, Adrian, I think I’m going to have to call you back, she begins, then belatedly registers his words. “Wait. If I’m interested in what, now?”

“A partnership,” he says.

* * *

The two men are talking cordially when she finally hangs up some awkward measure of time later, though neither looks particularly happy about it. She should probably intervene before anyone gets any less polite, but her head is spinning. Instead, she leans back in her chair and closes her eyes.

After a moment, two sets of footsteps pound across the patio. “Diane? What’s wrong?” Kurt asks

She opens her eyes to find both he and Paul have joined her on the patio. Kurt sits in chair beside her and pulls on his t-shirt, while Paul stands just off to the side, seemingly no longer certain if he has a place at her table.

She straightens up in her seat, laughing in flummoxed disbelief. “I...was just offered a job,” she tells them.  “At home. In Chicago.”

Paul laughs, “What? Good lord, who would think you would want to wade back into that madness?”

Kurt stares at her thoughtfully. “She does,” he decides after a moment, nodding once, almost to himself.

Paul laughs, shakes his head incredulously. “She’s happy here. Content. Things are a mess in the States. Why the hell would she want to go back to that?”

Kurt regards him steadily. “Because that’s who my wife is. She doesn’t run from a fight.”

Diane remains silent as Paul looks from one of them to the other. After a moment, he exhales heavily, reading the writing on the wall. "I brought the perennials we were talking about, Diane,” he says, gesturing to the garden. “I expect you don’t need any help with them." Nodding to Kurt, he starts to walk away.  
  
"Paul," she says, stopping him. "Thank you." She doesn’t just mean for the plants. He was here for her during a time she needed someone like him, someone far removed from everything causing her grief and anxiety; someone who understood why she needed a break. She’ll always be grateful to him for that.   
  
He spreads his arms and gives a courtly little bow. "You're very welcome. And best of luck, whatever you decide. It was nice meeting you, Kurt."

Silently, they watch him leave through the garden gate before Kurt looks over at her expectantly, reaching across the short distance between them to place a encouraging hand on her knee.

“I don’t know,” she says, in response to his unvoiced question. “It’s a big decision. But I’m going to consider it. Paul’s right; I have been content here. But I don’t want my life to just be _content_. Some things in life are worth a little madness.” She grins, setting her hand on top of his and squeezing. “Feel like flying across the ocean again?”


	8. Epilogue

It’s night in Chicago: cold, windy, with a vague notion of snow lingering in the air. And high above street level, Diane Lockhart looks out over the glittering city lights and smiles. They’re beautiful in a way she hadn’t noticed for a long, long time before she left. But that’s true of so many things, isn’t it? Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder.

Returning to her unpacking, she removes three elegantly framed photographs one by one from a sturdy cardboard box, setting them on her new desk, then tossing the box to the floor.

The first two pictures she carefully arranges on the long, narrow table beneath the window. “Wish me luck,” she asks of Hillary and Will, each of them smiling, forever frozen in happier times. Both of them, in their way, brought out the best in her once before; maybe they’ll bring her good luck now.

Turning back, she leans over on her arms, bracing herself on her desk and tapping her fingers against the smooth, cool surface. It’s the third photograph that’s giving her pause. From within the confines of the carved black frame, Kurt looks up at her with one of his rare crooked grins. They had been drinking wine on the patio of the house in France, exhausted from packing and cleaning, but happily buzzed, even more from the company than from the alcohol. The sun had been just starting to set over the neighbouring fields, and something about the way the red-gold light illuminated the lines around his eyes had been the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

She runs one finger over his face. As much as she loves this picture, displaying it openly feels too much like a declaration, one she’s not sure she’s ready to make. The time they’ve spent together over the past few months has been wonderful, but she’s all too aware they’ve been living inside the bubble. They made that mistake once before, thinking that as long as they loved each other, life would work itself out. It hadn’t. She needs to see how they manage in the real world, with both of them working again, before she'll be ready to really call them reconciled. What happens when she has a case that consumes all her waking hours? Or when he has a trial that takes him far away from her for months at a time? Will they find some semblance of balance this time, or will they fall back into old destructive habits?

After some consideration, she pulls open her top drawer and carefully sets the picture inside. Someday soon she hopes to give it a place of honour on her desk, but she’s not there just yet.

“Getting settled in?” a voice asks from the darkness beyond her office

She looks up to see Adrian appear in her doorway, and quickly slides the drawer closed. “Yes, I think so. It’s been a long day, but a good one.” Lifting her chin proudly, she adds, “I even hired an assistant.” It might be more accurate to say Marissa hired herself after she happened to run into her at the coffee shop on the corner, but the end result is the same.

“Good to hear,” Adrian says, stepping further into her office. “You’ll need one with all the work we have ahead of us.”

She grins; she can’t help it. Today was mostly about getting her feet under her, but tomorrow the real work begins. She can’t wait. She feels thirty years younger.

Adrian laughs. “You’re really looking forward to this, aren’t you?”

She laughs. “I am.” Then, remembering the situation that had inspired her to join his firm in the first place, she sobers.  “Don’t get me wrong; if I could will this whole mess away and put those kids safely back with their parents, I’d return to my garden in France in a heartbeat, but since I can’t… Yes. I’m excited to be back, and to have the opportunity to make a difference. And to stick it that orange orangutan.”

“Fuck yeah,” Adrian agrees, pumping one fist in the air, then lowering it and extending a finger at her. “Remember this feeling after your first 48-hour workday.”

“I will,” she promises, laughing. She knows very well what she’s in for; knows that for every one part of exhilaration there will be another three of exhaustion, frustration, and disappointment. It’s still worth it to her.

“Good.” He lifts his pointer finger to his temple in salute. “I’ll see you in the morning then.”

She inclines her head. “Bright and early.”

When he turns to leave her office, he very nearly collides with the other man who has quietly entered behind him. Dressed in jeans and brown suede, his silver hair mussed from the wind, even ten years on from the day she first met him, Kurt still reminds her of the Marlboro man come to life. And her heart still stutters every time she sees him.

In mirror image, both men raise their hands defensively and step backwards, offering up muttered apologies.

“Adrian,” Diane quickly explains, “this is my husband, Kurt McVeigh. Kurt, this is Adrian Boseman.”

“Oh yeah. Right. The ballistics guy. I saw you testify once,” her partner says, extending his hand. “You were good.”

Kurt grasps his hand and shakes firmly. “Thank you,” he says, giving a sharp nod and returning his hands to his pockets.

Adrian grins broadly. “So, we get a family discount now that your wife is a partner?”

Kurt smirks in return. “Nope.”

Diane looks quickly to Adrian, hoping he isn’t offended by Kurt’s brusqueness, but if he is, he hides it well behind a snort of laughter.

In any case, her husband isn’t finished. “Trying to get away from that kind of work,” he elaborates. “Too much time on the road.” The comment is directed at Adrian, but his eyes lock onto hers.

Her mouth falls open, and in Kurt’s narrowed eyes, she can see the amusement her reaction has elicited. He will never cease to amaze her.

Adrian, appearing oblivious to the new undercurrents in the room, starts again for the door. “Fair enough. Well, I’ll leave you two to it. Good to meet you, Kurt. Night, Diane.”

As her partner disappears into the darkened outer office, she walks around her desk and straight into Kurt’s waiting arms. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulls his head down, kissing him soundly, then burying her face against his shoulder. “God I missed you today,” she murmurs against his neck. The time they had spent together in France and then get settled back in Chicago was probably the longest uninterrupted period of time they had been together since they got engaged. Just the thought that it doesn’t have to end...

“What did you mean before? About getting away from that kind of work?” she asks, pulling back suddenly, letting her arms fall from around his neck to his elbows, the suede of his jacket rough beneath her fingertips.

His eyes shine, as one corner of his mouth lifts. “Ah, well. Was talking to a guy today about a job. Think I might take it. It’s local; no travelling.” He pulls her back to him, rubbing her back lighting with one hand as the other rests heavily on her hip.

She gasps. “Where?”

“FBI ballistics lab.”

“Kurt! That’s wonderful.” She throws her arms around him again, hugging tightly, then backing away again, suddenly concerned. It is wonderful...for her. But for him? “I mean, if that’s what you want,” she adds quickly. “You realize you wouldn’t be your own boss anymore.”

He gestures dismissively. “I’m not a young man anymore, Diane. The idea of working normal hours, collecting my pay, and letting someone else worry about keeping the lights on sounds pretty good to me. Especially if it means I get to go home to you every night.” He slides his hands lower, fingers trailing over her ass. “You ready?”

She pauses, looking at him thoughtfully. “Almost. One second.” She leans in, kisses him softly, and steps away.

Going back behind her desk, she pulls open her top drawer. Retrieving the framed photograph she put there earlier, she sets it upright on the corner of her desk next to her lamp. Taking a moment to examine the effect, she nods to herself, then retrieves her purse, and rejoins Kurt, who is watching her silently, but curiously.

Shrugging one shoulder enigmatically, she slides her arm around his waist, then laughs, stumbling against him as he slings his arm over her shoulders and tugs her close.

“Let’s go home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone!


End file.
